dark heralds of the storm, and Caracalla looked up. Before this radiant
witness he was ashamed to carry out his dark purpose, and he said,
addressing the sun:

"For thy sake, Phoebus Apollo, I spare the man." Then, pleased with
himself, he looked down again. The restraint he had laid upon himself
struck him as in fact a great and noble effort, accustomed as he was to
yield to every impulse. But at the same time he observed that the
clouds, which had so often brought him good fortune, were dispersing, and
this gave him fresh uneasiness. Dazzled by the flood of sunshine which
poured in at the window, he withdrew discontentedly into the room. If
this bright day were to bring disaster? If the god disdained his
offering?

But was not Apollo, perhaps, like the rest of the immortals, an idol of
the fancy, living only in the imagination of men who had devised it?
Stern thinkers and pious folks, like the skeptics and the Christians,
laughed the whole tribe of the Olympians to scorn. Still, the hand of
Phoebus Apollo had rested heavily on his shoulders in his dream. His
power, after all, might be great. The god must have the promised
sacrifice, come what might. Bitter wrath rose up in his soul at this
thought, as it had often done before, with the immortals, against whom
he, the all-powerful, was impotent. If only for an hour they could be
his subjects, he would make them rue the sufferings by which they spoiled
his existence.

"He is called Martialis. I will remember that name," he thought, as he
cast a last envious look at the centurion.

How long Philostratus was gone! Solitude weighed on him, and he looked